Swansong
by owlcroft
Summary: A chat on the beach this time. About . . . birds?


A/N: Mention is made herein of ducklings – _cute _ducklings. This is a reference to a previous story titled "Make Way for McCormick". It is not necessary to have read that story to enjoy this one. Which I very much hope you do.

Swan Song

by

Owlcroft

"Okay, so it's not a seagull. It's just a plain old gull?" McCormick lowered binoculars to cast a glance at the man lying next to him in the tall grass behind the dunes. "'Cause they _all_ live near the sea?"

"Yeah," said that man. "Took my wife – well, _Nancy_ – years to get me calling them gulls instead. I mean, look," Hardcastle waved a hand at the ocean. "It's even called _Seagull_ Beach, for crying out loud. Why can't we just call 'em seagulls?"

McCormick grinned at him. "You can call them whatever you want, Judge. As long as you call them for dinner." He made his hmmp noise and went back to the binoculars.

"Hey, yeah, it's about time for that picnic basket, don'tcha think." The judge hauled up the wicker basket from its resting place further down the slope and opened it hopefully. "Baked chicken, devilled eggs, pie . . . and a little plastic thing of salad." Hardcastle carefully set the salad to one side and started opening up the container of eggs.

McCormick took the chicken container, a fork, a handful of paper napkins, and settled in next to the notebook and binoculars. "Trust Aggie to try to get us to eat healthy." He took a bite of chicken and offered the plastic box to the judge. "Have I ever told you how glad I am she took over the cooking?"

That earned a mild glare from the older man. "I cook pretty damn well, I'll have you know." He took another bite of devilled egg and added, "Just because you don't appreciate fine dining -" he spread a hand over his chest and assumed a modest expression " – I'm well-known for my Pork Chops a la Milt."

"Well-known is one word for it." Another bite of chicken went down. "Another would be notorious."

"Hey! Hey! There's one! Write it down," urged Hardcastle, handing across the eggs. "What does that make, twenty-three?"

"Yep. Twenty-three brown pelicans in three hours, fourteen minutes." Mark made his own egg selection and sat back to enjoy it. "I'm actually glad you volunteered us for this. Crying shame about their eggs, though." He looked closely at his chicken egg, decided it hadn't been exposed to DDT and proceeded to down it. "Didn't the state guys say twenty-four in four hours would be good?"

The judge nodded, wiped a few crumbs off his shirt and took another helping of chicken. "It is a shame. Stupid thing to do, spread what's basically poison around and realize later it's killing off the birds." He snatched at a napkin picked up by the ocean breeze. "Birds, of all things. Inoffensive, harmless critters." He brooded on the chicken for a moment. "Most of 'em anyway, maybe not buzzards."

Mark leaned back with another devilled egg. "You can call somebody an old buzzard and that's not exactly a compliment."

"Lotsa sayings about birds. Birds are important; that's why we're out here counting pelicans." Hardcastle swiped a thumb across his nose and reached for the pie. "Birds are . . . I dunno, ingrained in peoples' lives in a lot of ways, in our language."

"Early bird gets the worm?" suggested McCormick. "And you can call somebody a turkey, too, but that's kinda the same deal as calling them a buzzard."

The judge offered a pie slice to the pelican counter stretched out next to him. "Wise as an owl," he said. "Happy as a lark."

"Crazy as a loon," Mark accepted the pie and handed back the empty egg container. "Mad as a wet hen."

Hardcastle nodded and packed away the empties. "A bird in the hand."

"Oh, that's an ugly thought! What is that bird gonna do in your hand, Judge?" McCormick shuddered delicately, then ate some pie. "Ooh, you can flip somebody the bird! Maybe flip that bird in your hand the bird after he . . . ah, well, you know."

"Ugly duckling, speaking of ugly." The judge finished his pie and considered another piece, but decided on discretion instead of valor. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. Finally, "You oughta know something about ugly ducklings."

Mark was outraged. "Those ducklings were _cute_! Even Frank thought they were adorable. And _you_ threatened to eat them!"

Hardcastle waved him to a stop. "I didn't mean them. I meant . . . something else. Something sorta . . . personal. To you." He shifted on the sand, moved the hamper to a more settled position, offered a hand for the leftover napkins and stowed them away.

McCormick waited, puzzled.

After a pause that threatened to expand and include the entire afternoon, the judge finally spoke again. "I just meant the story about the ugly duckling. You know. About how it was a baby swan being raised by a duck." He picked at a crumb of pie crust on the sand and threw it into the sea breeze. "Although I guess that maybe means I'm the duck. The stupid one."

McCormick thought about that. A light slowly dawned, then he thought some more.

"You mean about being the mama duck."

"Well, kinda. Not a _mama _duck, exactly." Hardcastle counted the forks to make sure they'd all made in back into the hamper. Or maybe as an excuse not to look at the erstwhile duckling next to him on the dune.

Mark thought some more, then said with a distinct twinkle, "Nah. You're not at all duck-like. Still an Arkansas donkey."

The judge huffed a bit and answered, "Well, if I'm a donkey, that makes you a -"

"Brown pelican!" McCormick pointed at the sky and then scribbled in his notebook. "That makes twenty-four!"

Hardcastle sighed and shook his head. "I just don't get it. Every time we try to talk about . . . real stuff – you know, heart to heart, get serious stuff – some guy robs a bank right next to us or a bird flies overhead. I dunno."

"Maybe it's Fate or something. Or some kinda evolutionary reaction. Maybe the world would explode if we talked about _serious_ stuff." Mark grinned at that thought, while the judge sighed again. "Or maybe we just don't _need _to talk about all that." He put the notebook in his pocket and stood, dusting off sand. "The best things to say don't really need any words, right? Oh, and we got forgot about one word – birdbrain," he grinned.

The judge pinched up his face in thought for a moment, but then nodded. "Yeah, you're right about that. And we're _not _birdbrains 'cause we realize it."

McCormick let that slide, but noticed the salad still sitting on the sand, lonely and forgotten. He picked it up and offered it to the judge. "Y'know, Aggie's not gonna be happy with us coming back with an untouched salad."

Hardcastle took it and examined it with disdain. "Ah, leave it for the gulls."

_finis_


End file.
